As you can see shipmates, I am attempting to curb my wicked ways and blog more often. Now, I know that my readers would consider themselves blessed if but a few of my personal anecdotes found their way into a consumable medium; alas, for those who wonder this vale of tears in search of mental stimulation my long silences must seem an affront! A bestowing of manna withheld for only reasons of base laziness! Avast ye scurvy dog! Rig your fingers to the keyboard and let loose the topsail of your imagination!
So I will relate to you, dearest shipmates, the riveting details of my day spent in San Juan with the moral colouring you all so justly anticipate. So we arrived in San Juan—oft called the Paris of the Caribbean*—at noon. I worked till 11, had a nice refreshing workout, and met my friends for lunch around noon, so it was just shy of 1:00pm before a group of us rascally ship dwellers doffed our monkey coats and made for the gangway. Our plan was to walk Old San Juan and play the role of tourists, taking pictures and cavorting amongst the sites; unfortunately, mother nature—that toothy bitch!**—decided to dash our idyllic plans.
Naturally, when the deluge began, like Noah before us, we promptly found a watertight structure and proceeded to drink beer. Good times, good beer—t’was a fun afternoon! The rain lasted perhaps 15 minutes, our adult beverages for hours. Like all good things however, this fine social gathering had to end. For me, this ending came at 3 when I had to thrust my way through the milling masses, board the Pequod and once more don my customary librarian garb***. It was not without a heavy heart that I elbowed my way past the gawking gringos, for who among us gladly leaves the table when the tidings of boisterous good cheer ring so loudly?
And what, praytell, do you suppose, dearest reader, that I found upon rushing upstairs to my station? An empty library deserted by passengers who realized that a day spent in San Juan would be more fun than yet another day spent onboard the ship? Remember too, yesterday we spent the day at sea, so for a whole day—sun-up to sun-down—these people did nothing but mill about the ship. And what, after all this masterful buildup of anticipation, do you suppose they chose to do on this fine, sunny—for the most part—day? You would be right if you guessed “spend the day playing solitaire on their ipads****.” So here I was, the very cockles of my heart still warm from the convivial fires of friendship in front of which I so recently huddled, forced to tend to the wants of a group of human cargo too lazy, too filled with self loathing, too eager to feast upon the bitter herbs of human misery to enjoy themselves!
Now, you all know how fair and impartial the Dread Pirate is—truly fair and balanced reporting—so you’ll realize that my horrified reaction to the shambling hordes that greeted me does not include the legitimately decrepit. Nay, for those poor souls whose earthly vessels have become too frail, too cracked, or too worn down by the sands of time to allow much in the way of corporeal locomotion, I offer only my sincere sympathy. For those, however, who quickly descended on my desk to query me about the poor internet connections, or ask me how they might get to the afternoon’s craft workshop, I hold nothing but contempt. Go! I want to scream in their puckered faces. For the love of all that is holy, please go out into the world and have all the fun I am denied by your fussy needs! In your stead, I would surely be laughing and gay***** in the streets of old San Juan! The oh-so-charming narrow streets would ring with my boyish glee; the arms of the local beer wenches would strain under the platters of cool refreshments needed to soothe the throats of my party parched from too much gregarious revelry; yea! the lowliest street urchins would remember this day with a crooked grin as the day that San Juan was visited by the very spirit of philanthropic celebration!
Instead, people planted themselves in the library seats only rousing themselves to come up to my desk mooing like the chattel they are about the meaningless problems ailing them. Perhaps it was all the wobbly pops I had consumed, but I literally****** had to leave the room, lock myself in the nearest wheelchair-accessible washroom, and cry for the opportunities presently passing me by. Finally, after bashing my forehead against the rim of the toilet for a solid 20 minutes in order to bring myself down to the intellectual level necessary to interact with the passengers, I stumbled back to my station, dazed smile firmly fixed in place.
So the moral is this: go out and live life you fools! Otherwise you will end up like these rundown wastes of flesh who do naught but plague my existence! Seize life by whichever hairs—be they short or long—afford the best grip!
*By me anyway.
**Thanks T.S.
***Yes, a post about said garb is forthcoming.
****A surprising number of the decrepitly old have ipads. I have yet to discover the reason for this.
*****Gay as in happy; although, with all that free time…
******Not literally.
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